The Coffee Mug


I pick up the mug carefully. The coffee cup fits perfectly between my fingers. I press its rubber lip against mine and think back to what it was like holding her for the first time.

So soft and perfect. Just like silk, she unraveled in my arms.

The coffee is hot to the touch. The second it hits my tongue, I feel the burn.

Her eyes were shifty. Should I have known then? What could I have done? What could I have said?

The steam rises into my nostrils and I’m steeped. Stumped. Stirring in thought.

I didn’t have to catch her. I knew she was away even when she was home. The way she kept checking her phone. Her wedding ring, conveniently left on the counter.

The coffee is too hot. It’s too much. It’s spilling over before I can contain it.  I feel it boiling the sides of my fingers. I’m startled. Jumping. Rattled to the core.

“It’s just not going to work out.” She said it before I could. “I’ve met someone else.” Her words echo.

I jump back and watch. I can’t grab it. I can’t hold on.  The cup smashes against the floor and pieces of a whole are now splitting. Fragmented and broken, its hard edges shatter.